


First Words

by Philosophizes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, But also not a Human AU for a twist, Gen, Or a Beautiful Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, whichever floats your boat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Nein- Sie sind ein Fehler"</i> means nothing to Feliciano, when he first sees it. It's not Latin, and it sounds only a little like the languages of the Germanic tribes of the north.</p><p>When enough time has passed for language to develop to the point that the words are somewhat understandable, Feliciano wishes there was something else written on the inside of his arm. <i>Anything</i> else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Feliciano knew what the first words the most important person in his life would ever say to him sounded like before he even knew what they meant. He was born in the days before any of his people used writing, after all, and the words only appeared on the inside of his right forearm after Rome had grabbed his people and added them to his empire- republic, then, but same thing.

This was extremely puzzling, because _‘Nein- Sie sind ein Fehler’_ was definitely not Latin, but it was written in Latin letters.

It was another couple of centuries before he could recognize the similarity of the sounds the Germanic visitors to Rome as similar to the words that had been in his head, and were now were on his skin, just like everyone else’s; but no one could tell him what they meant. No one had heard those words, before.

“You’re a Nation, little Felicianus,” Rome told him. His own words, the first thing Gaius Julius Caesar had ever said to him, were stark, proud black against the inside of his bare forearm. “You have lifetimes to find your person. It might be centuries yet before the first words of that language are even heard.”

And it was.

Feliciano had had a lot of daydreams about what the words might actually mean. The Germanic languages were similar enough, now, that he could say with reasonable certainty that the first word was probably _“No”_.

 _“No” what,_ though?

Nations’ words were usually from someone who would be a great leader, or cultural figure- or, much more rarely, the words of the Nation who would replace them. Christophorus’ words were _‘I baptize you in the name of Jesus’_ , and greatly intimidated just about everyone he met, because _St. Paul_ had said that to him. Rome’s had been from Caesar, of course; and Feliciano knew that Byzantium’s words were _‘Someday this will be the greatest city in the world’,_ from Constantine, about Constantinople.

Maybe it was _“No- I will make you great.”_

Feliciano would like that.

So it was a bitter disappointment when the first traders came, speaking something that sounded a _lot_ closer to the words in his head than the Germanic he’d heard in Rome, centuries before; and he got one of the traders to tell him that that while he didn’t know _exactly_ what it meant, because it was probably a different language than he spoke, but related somehow, but he _thought_ it said: _“No- you are a mistake.”_

Maybe the trader was wrong. Feliciano hoped _fiercely_ that the trader was wrong; but that translation sat in the back of his head and festered, bitter in the back of his throat, and he- he _wasn’t_ going to be a mistake.

When he found whoever this most important person was, he was going to have a glorious history to fall back on, to pull out and tell them that he _wasn’t_ a mistake, how _dare_ they call the Republic of Venice a _mistake._

* * *

Keeping track of other Nation’s words became his hobby. He learned a lot of them during the Crusades, ferrying people through to the Holy Land, and the trading, before and after.

England’s were from William the Conqueror, in Norman French- _‘You’re mine now.’_

France hadn’t met his person yet, but his words said what he thought was _‘All we beg of you is freedom,”_ which seemed a little foreboding, but the translation could be wrong. Like Feliciano’s not-yet-extant Germanic language, France’s French wasn’t spoken yet.

Holy Rome’s were something like _‘He’s just a child, you idiot!’_ He and Feliciano compared, and their Germanic language seemed to be the same one. They commiserated about the complete _unfairness_ of their future- Heinrich’s apparent inability to grow, and Feliciano’s to-come rejection- the entire way to the Levant.

Spain’s and Naples’ he didn’t have to learn- he’d been there when they’d said each other’s words, in Rome’s house. It had been a very odd event, because it was very, very rare that two Nations shared each other’s words. It was much more common in humans to have a pair that shared words- no one had actually ever _counted,_ as far as Feliciano knew, but the amount of people who shared words with each other rather than one person having someone else’s seemed about half, maybe a little less. Usually, it was parents and children sharing words; but other options were reasonably common, as well. Often, when it wasn’t parents, it was held to be the sign of an unshakeable, life-long friendship, or a destined marriage.

Less often, but more tragically, were two people who shared each other’s words because they were destined to become great enemies, or rivals.

This was assumed to be the case with Antonio and Lovino, but Antonio seemed to do nothing but adore Lovino, even if Lovino insisted on being just as prickly to him as just about every other Nation in existence- _more,_ even, because of their shared words- so maybe they were going to be really good friends, instead.

In the later Crusades, after the word _‘mistake’_ had sunk into Feliciano’s bones and burned hot and angry all through him, and had driven him to become a naval empire and almost the richest state on the Mediterranean and the known world, he met the Teutonic Knights. He was a strange child, who’d been dragged into Acre from the north Baltic coast, still a half-German-assimilated barbarian pagan when he arrived, and his words were actually only one word. It said _‘Bruder?’_ , and was the reason he’d walked away from his people, from the Prussians, to find the German Nation who would one day call him brother.

* * *

Feliciano sacked Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade in 1204 to prove he wasn’t a mistake. He fought the Byzantines and then the Ottomans for outposts in the Mediterranean to prove he wasn’t a mistake. He won the War of the League of Cambrai in 1509 and then the Battle of Lepanto in 1571 and crushed the Ottomans to prove he wasn’t a mistake. 

In the north, the German states fought amongst themselves and fell apart and came back together again and generally caused a great big mess in the middle of Europe, though Feliciano had to admit that the rest of the Italian states weren’t doing much better, if he was told be honest.

In 1534 Martin Luther translated the Bible into German, and by the end of the century his version of German was the academic and literary standard across the Holy Roman Empire, the way Florentine was across the Italian states, and Feliciano twisted up inside because he _knew,_ now, that the trader from way back in the 700s had been right.

On his arm, in the German people now wrote in, were the words: _“No- you are a mistake.”_

* * *

For a long time, he pretended nothing was going wrong, but by the end of the 1600s he couldn’t deny that he had absolutely slipped from power. Venice was an important cultural stop, and still did trade, but he wasn’t a _power,_ any longer.

He _hated_ it he _hated_ it he _hated_ it-

In 1797 Napoleon marched into his city and Feliciano’s Council had voted to dissolve his Republic and Feliciano cried bitter, angry tears because he _felt_ like a mistake, on this day.

France, who’d heard his words some ten years or so ago, out of the mouth of a revolutionary who hadn’t been able to make good on his promises, split up the former Republic of Venice between himself and Austria.

When his only vital place, his actual heart, his city, _his Venice,_ ended up in Austrian hands, Feliciano took a knife to his arm and tried to flense the _damned German words_ he’d lived with for almost two and a half thousand years _at least_ off his skin, not wanting to hear any _Austrian_ say them to him, ever.

He took them off in a perfect strip, and burned it; but of course the words healed back with the new skin.

Austria with his _‘I hope I can prove myself worthy of you’_ didn’t say a thing about the bandage he had to wear on his arm for a few days or the way he never pushed up his sleeves any longer, only created Lombardy-Venetia.

Feliciano spent the entire time resenting Lombardy’s _‘You are the most beautiful thing God shall ever create’_ , the only thing left of a tragic past, sharing words and paltry forty years with a long-dead member of her nobility.

He resented, and he hated, and he seethed- but he wasn’t unpleasant. He was proud enough and angry enough to _refuse_ to be like Lovino, to prove through his attitude that no matter what happened to him, he was a better person than the other Nations. It was the only thing he had left, to prove he wasn’t a mistake- a _failure._

 _“Fehler”_ was _‘error’,_ or _‘mistake’_. Then there were the related _‘Fehlgeburt’_ , a _‘miscarriage’_ ; _‘Fehlentscheidung’_ , a _‘wrong decision’_ ; _‘Fehleinschätzung’_ , a _‘misjudgment’_ ; and then idiomatically _‘jedes Fehler sein’_ , _‘to be someone’s fault’_.

When he felt really terrible, Feliciano would take a brush, and dip it in ink, and write _‘Der Fehler sind Sie, nicht ich’_ on the inside of his other arm, to remind himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Ludwig had been quietly resigned when he finally learned enough to Italian to figure out that _‘Per favore, non sparare!’_ meant _‘Please, don’t shoot!’_

He truly was destined for a life of war and violence, and Gilbert did his best to try to cheer him up, to tell him stories of glory and power and victory; but Gilbert had Ludwig’s _‘Bruder?’_ on the inside of his arm and all Ludwig really wanted was his older brother’s _‘Ja, ich bin es’_ in return.

It seemed desperately unfair, his words. Poland had _‘I will not rest until you are honored once again’_ on his arm, like a _proper_ Nation. Russia’s was _‘You deserve to have had a better life’,_ an implicit promise of a better future. He’d seen Hungary’s, which was _‘Never again, my lady, I swear it’_ \- a little odd, but it could hint at some sort of successful war or other fight in her future. Liechtenstein had Switzerland’s _‘How can you stand him?’_ in reference to Austria; though his own arm bore some Swiss German dialect’s equivalent of _‘Fuck you!’_ , which was honestly just weird.

America’s arm said _‘What do you want, child?’,_ which sounded a little disappointing, but Alfred was proud to say that it was Thomas Jefferson who had asked that question, and that his response of _‘My liberty, my own life, and whatever happiness God will grant me’_ had been on the inside of the man’s arm in return. Denmark had _‘I bring you these spoils of war’_ in Old Norse, and the man had cheerful told him all about Viking raids. Sweden has Gustav Vasa’s childhood proclamation about the Swedish nobility that _‘They’re all idiots’_. Finland had translated his words to Ludwig as _‘Blood and death, death to the hell-damned, and all glory to Finland!’_

Ludwig had thought Finland was having him on, but Gilbert’s expression upon hearing the cheerful translation was pinched and just the _slightest_ bit scared. So Finland’s was just terrifying.

Terrifying was what you were supposed to want, in a Nation; but Ludwig didn’t really want to fight, not that much. He wanted to fight to make Gilbert proud, or to protect his people- he didn’t want to become someone who had to be begged not to shoot.

* * *

For a number of years, he wondered how exactly he was supposed to end up with an Italian asking him not to shoot. There was no good _reason_ to go to war with Italy- Gilbert was decent friends with both of them, and diplomatically they didn’t have any problems with each other, either. They were part of the Triple Alliance with him and Austria-Hungary, for goodness’s sake, even if Gilbert was the one who’d gone to all those meetings and he’d never actually met either of the Italies.

Even with the advent of the Great War, the War to End All Wars- surely the first and only time Ludwig would ever be in the position to _shoot_ someone- the German Empire and the Kingdom of Italy were on the same side.

Well, they were _supposed_ to be, but five months after the war started and an attempt at neutrality later, Italy joined the Allied Powers.

It looked like he was going to get the chance to be begged not to shoot by an Italian, after all.

* * *

He’d been fluttery and a little nauseous through ever armed encounter with Italian forces so far in this war, the Tragedies about someone accidentally killing the person who spoke their words running through his head. The Greeks had had a classic one, about a war and something like this. Two princes whom a god had tried to arrange to be great friends and leaders of their cities, forging an alliance between them and bringing all of Greece into a new golden age- but when one came on behalf of his father to propose a mutual peace treaty, an end to the war without anyone surrendering, the other had dealt him a fatal blow before he could begin to speak. The man’s last words had been the ones the other had been waiting to hear, and so the murderer committed suicide on the spot in penance.

What if that happened to him, here? What if there was some Italian, who was supposed to survive this war and come to the Germany, maybe do something technological or literary or artistic or cultural or who _knew_ what, and they yelled across a battlefield _‘Please, don’t shoot!’_ and Ludwig couldn’t _hear him,_ and killed him? What if he messed up his own future?

Logically, though the appearance and always-truthfulness of the words in the first place completely defied logic and science, that should be impossible. If he killed his most important person before they were even in a position to _be_ his most important person, then they could never become his most important person, could they, so he would have ended up with someone else’s words-

But still, he worried.

* * *

Ludwig wasn’t worried when his troops stormed and overran an Allied encampment, because there was intelligence that the Allied Nations had all been meeting here, for a few days, and so they’d scored a very important victory by being able to seize the camp.

He _was_ still nervous, though, because this was the first time he’d be appearing as an equal- he was more adult than teenager now- to the other Nations of Europe, and he wanted to make a good impression. Well, at least as good an impression as you could make when you were currently at war with each other and were holding the others prisoner; but he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself.

So he squared his shoulders and strode into the large tent the Allied Nations had been using as their meeting place, and were now imprisoned in, with Gilbert and Hungary and Austria at his back.

The first thing he heard was _‘Per favore, non sparare!’_ ; and he stopped dead to stare.

Most of the captured Nations- France, England, Russia, Belgium, goddamned Serbia who had _started_ all this mess- were sitting or standing around, quietly fuming about their bad fortune; but this, this _Italian_ had put his hands up and _said Ludwig’s words._

“No,” he said, stunned, more to himself than anything. “You are a mistake. This is-”

The other man’s expression was, for a brief moment, one of total surprise.

Ludwig saw about half a second of anger and even less of a fist, and then he was on the ground clutching a broken, bloody nose and the Italian was screaming at him.

 _“You!”_ he was yelling. “ _You!_ I’ve been waiting almost _three thousand years_ to tell the bastard who’s words are on my arm that I’m not a mistake, and _you-!_ You’re a _child!_ You’re not even as old my Kingdom! You- you _asshole!_ You _pig! Three thousand years-_ I fought Charlemagne’s son for you! I ferried people to the Crusades for you! I sacked Constantinople for you! I fought the Turks and the Greeks and the Byzantines and the French and _all of my neighbors_ for you! I staged a revolution against Austria for you! I fought tooth and nail and _four wars of independence_ to put a Kingdom together for you- to _prove you wrong-_ and _you-_ I cannot _believe this! **Three thousand years-**_ ”

 He descended into furious, incomprehensible Italian swearing; and Ludwig picked himself up off the ground and did his best to yell back, through the blood and the broken nose.

“Well what the _hell_ sort of an introduction _‘please, don’t shoot!’?_ ” he demanded. “Did you _really think_ I was going to come in here and- and just gun you down? _You’re a prisoner of war!_ There are _standards!_ Maybe I don’t have _three thousand years_ to have lived with it, but _thirty years_ is plenty of time to wonder what the _hell_ sort of person you are that you have to be begged not to _kill_ the most important person in your life upon _seeing them,_ you _absolute_ **_idiot!_** ”

There was laughing.

Someone was _laughing._

“This isn’t funny!” Ludwig snapped at his brother.

“Lutz, are you kidding, this is fucking _hilarious,_ ” Gilbert said. “Of _all_ the people- Feliciano! _And_ you get him to start yelling like he hasn’t in more than five hundred years within seconds of walking in? This is a _priceless_ moment, little brother, **_absolutely_** _priceless._ ”

“Don’t be rude, Ludwig,” Austria told him, and Ludwig spared a moment to glare at him, incredulous.

“Don’t _I_ be rude! _He’s_ the one who hit me!”

Austria’s mouth was doing that _thing_ where he refused to smile but it was obvious he wanted to, and that was-

“He fought empires, sacked the capital of a world power, and forged his own country- _‘for you’_ ,” he said. “You should say thank you. It’s the least you can do after all the trouble he’s gone through.”

“It’s actually rather sweet,” Hungary continued from the Nation she shared a country with, eyes dancing in a way that Ludwig was not happy about at _all._ “In its own way. You’ll have to think very hard about what you could possibly do to match that. You shouldn’t get into a relationship on uneven footing.”

Now _France_ was laughing, into his hands.

“Yes, yes!” he agreed. “It is quite romantic, is it not? All the glory accumulated and the empire built, _just for you._ ”

Well that was the entire dynamic of war prisoners gone, because Hungary and France were giving each other very satisfied looks and England had snorted and rolled his eyes, and Belgium was just sitting there _smiling_ fit to match Gilbert’s grin, and even Austria and Russia had temporarily put aside the fact that they’d been some of the first out the gate to start this war and were giving more of a pretense at dignity as they watched Ludwig and Feliciano with barely-hidden amusement.

After a moment of looking around at everyone else, Feliciano seemed to deflate a bit, and smiled sheepishly at him.

“It _does_ sound pretty silly now that I’ve said it out loud, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“A little bit, yes,” Ludwig replied, trying to sound stern.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Feliciano told him. “But I don’t think I’m sorry for yelling at you; because that was a _terrible_ reaction to hearing your words said. You really should have thought about them more.”

Ludwig sighed, and mentally admitted defeat.

“I suppose,” he said. “It wasn’t a very good introduction. Would you like to try again?”

“Oh yes,” Feliciano told him, smile turning bright. “Yes I would, very much.”


End file.
